


I'm Tired, You're Lonely

by softbroscottmoir (jennycalendar)



Series: Fine, But Dying [1]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-04-26 18:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14407764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennycalendar/pseuds/softbroscottmoir
Summary: Talking would require listening, which would require her to witness his reaction in real-time. God, she’d trade her medals -- every one of them -- to avoid having that conversation. What would she even say?“Hey, Scott, sorry I aborted our child before the Olympics without telling you and you had to find out about it from the CBC.”(The abortion fic nobody was asking for.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies in advance for this. I... Yeah, I think I hate me, too.

**_What does that say of me_ **

**_when I know it’s you calling but I let it ring?_ **

**_Tell me, what’s left of us?_ **

**_Should this house feel as empty as it does?_ **

 

She hasn’t gone outside in days. There’s a cluster of mail on her welcome mat, unfinished mugs of tea molding in her sink, and a nightmare of unread emails she can’t bear to inspect.

She thinks that if she just stands still for long enough, maybe the world will get bored and forget about her. Eventually.

The only visitor she’s allowed so far is her mother, exactly once, and only because she showed up unannounced with a full tray of brownies and a box of wine. Tessa thanked her and sent her on her way. “ _I'm fine, mom_. _Really.”_

She certainly hasn’t talked to _him_ yet.

Talking would require listening, which would require her to witness his reaction in real-time. God, she’d trade her medals -- every one of them -- to avoid having _that_ conversation. What would she even say?

“Hey, Scott, sorry I aborted our child before the Olympics without telling you and you had to find out about it from the CBC.”

No.

Better to sit and do nothing. Better to let the bills collect on her doorstep, let the sponsorships evaporate, let the internet tear her apart piece by piece, until there’s nothing left for them to scrutinize.

***

He only calls her twice. The first time, it rings once before the line clicks off. The second time, it goes straight to voicemail.

***

It does get easier. Somewhat.

She eventually goes outside -- to the store for groceries, to her local cafe, always wearing sunglasses ( _Tessa Virtue for BonLook, rest in peace_ ). She sees her family. Sees some friends. Realizes who her real friends are.

It’s funny how things happened. She’s never felt so free in her life. Her greatest fear came to pass -- worse than that -- and still she lived to tell the tale. No sponsors? No problem. No partner?

No partner.

She thinks maybe she can live without Scott. It’ll be like living with her eyes closed, or losing a limb. Tough, but manageable. People have survived worse.

On the good days, she is fine without him. Happy, even. She upgrades from markets and cafes to museums and concerts. She goes on dates and has unromantic, desperate sex. She learns to crochet.

On the bad days, she has to remind herself to breathe. She holds her stomach and cries, spills wine on her new carpet, writes him angry, drunken letters she'll never send.

She likes the way she looks, now, when she cries. She used to hate showing weakness. But now, her weakness is all that’s left of him. Her muscles have softened. Her medals are collecting dust. But her tears are fresh, and that’s something to remember him by.

* * *

  ** _Has it all just come to this?_**

**_Both wanting what the other cannot give._ **

**_Are we still trying to prove_ **

**_this isn’t something we’ll grow out of like old shoes?_ **

 

She doesn’t need to look at her calendar. She’s been anticipating this day for a year.

A year ago today, the video went live on instagram. The CBC picked it up, and within hours, it was all anyone in Canada could talk about -- grainy cell phone footage of five-time Olympic medalist Tessa Virtue in the waiting room of an abortion clinic, taken five months before Pyeongchang.

There was no use confirming or denying for the public. Scott would know, and that would be enough. Any hope for a united front was shattered. There would be no Stars on Ice. There would be no victory lap.

She decides to take today off. She orders herself a large veggie pizza. Changes into her favorite pajamas (powder blue flannel with little dancing pies), selects a documentary from her Netflix queue, and buckles up for a full day of wallowing.

Ten minutes into _Cosmos_ , the doorbell rings.

“Coming!” she says, detangling herself from her couch blankets. She races to the door, pulls it open, mutters “Sorry, I--”

She stops dead.

He looks the same. At least, he looks exactly the way she always pictures him. Hair a little too long at the back, acne along the edge of his jaw, brows furrowed, shoulders back. She could collapse into him, breathe in the familiar scent of his shampoo, and forget about the last 12 months. 

She doesn’t know how long she’s standing there, staring at the crook of his neck. Her mouth has gone completely dry. Does she say hello? Does she slam the door in his face?

“I thought you were pizza,” she says, finally. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” he says. He sucks in a deep breath. “Can I come in?”

“Um. Yeah, okay.” She steps aside to let him enter, closes the door and lingers there for a moment, shell shocked.

He is an alien in her home. She feels like she’s hallucinating, but then he turns to look at her -- well, to look right past her -- and she knows she’s not imagining the anxious set of his jaw or the quickening of her pulse.

Fuck.

The doorbell rings again.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice too loud. She quickly opens the door, accepts the pizza and tips her driver.

And then it’s just the two of them again, standing in her formal entryway. Framed black and white photos (none of  _them_ ) and a gold statement chandelier. Tessa in flannel PJs with a large pizza, Scott with his hands in his pockets.

“Do you want some?” she asks, meaning the pizza.

“No,” he says. “Maybe just a slice. I don’t wanna…” _Stay too long?_ Tessa finishes.

“I figured.”

She moves past him, maximizing the space between them, and into her kitchen. He follows at a distance. She busies herself grabbing plates and napkins and glasses for water, cleans a spot on the counter, looks anywhere but his direction.

“Tess,” he says. The sound of her name in his mouth takes her back. The last time she saw him, they were curled up on his couch in Montreal, his tongue on her neck, her toes curling into themselves, breathless, grinding down on him...  _"Oh, Tess. Fuck."_

She has to steady herself on her marble countertop at the memory. She takes a deep breath, holding back tears, and wordlessly hands him his glass of water. 

“I’m not thirsty,” he says.

The glass sweats in her hand. She grips it until her knuckles turn white. The funniest idea flits across her mind, and she can’t help herself. She takes it and throws it across the room. Shards of glass and water scattering across her polished hardwood floors. She lets out a gust of breath, and she laughs. Full-throated, ugly laughs. The look on his face -- it does something to her, the absurdity of it all. She’s never seen anything so funny in her life. She wipes fat tears from her eyes as she howls. She’s losing it. 

He frowns, deep lines setting into his forehead. He was never very hard to read.

“I’m sorry… your… face,” she chokes out through laughter.

"Jesus, Tess." He grabs a roll of paper towels from the counter and starts work on her mess.

She manages to catch her breath. The hysteria subsides. She feels about a thousand pounds lighter. Every day for 365 days, all she could think about was how this reunion might play out. Not in any scenario was she wearing cartoon pie pajamas or throwing breakable objects across her kitchen.

She takes a triumphant bite of her pizza and shakes her head. “What are you doing here, Scott?”

“Dustpan?” he says, ignoring her question.

“By the fridge.”

Scott sweeps up the smaller shards and deposits them in the trash. He washes his hands, dries them on a dish towel, and leans up against the counter. All without so much as a glance in her direction.

They’re standing fewer than two feet apart now, wedged between the counter and the island.

“I missed you,” he says, finally.

Her whole body tenses, all humor sucked right out of her. “Does Genevieve know you’re here?” She sounds bitter, but she doesn’t care. Scott had to know she’d been keeping tabs on him, had to know she would know about Gen.

For his part, he doesn’t sound surprised. “She knows I’m in London.”

“So, no.”

“Not exactly, no." 

“I missed you, too,” she says, after a moment, her voice small.

They finally lock eyes. All the pretense between them out the window. She hasn’t _really_  looked at him, yet. His hair is not so long at the back. The acne she imagined has cleared up. His shoulders are slimmer from lack of training. She wonders if he’s changed his shampoo. There’s so much she doesn't know about this Scott. It makes her ache.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. 

“Scott,” she says. Her voice a warning.

“No. You had a million opportunities to tell me. I deserved to know.”

 _“Scott._ ”

“ _Tessa,”_ he replies, mimicking her tone.

 “It was _my_ choice.”

 “Bullshit, Tessa. That’s not what this is about, and you know it. You could have _told_ me.”

“If I had told you, it would have immediately been about us! About _our_ child. About _our_ medals.  _Our_ future -- not mine.”

“That’s what couples do! They make decisions together!”

“Oh? Were we a couple, Scott? I seem to remember a very long conversation--”

“I knew you would bring that up--”

“--in Kyoto about ‘not wanting to label anything.’”

“ _\--I was talking about the press!_ ”

They both pant for breath, fuming. Tessa is suddenly very aware of the open window over the sink. She pulls it shut, then crosses her arms across her chest. 

“If you had just told me,” he starts.

“What?” she snaps. “What would have happened, Scott?”

He doesn’t respond.

“You would have wanted me to keep it. I know you. And I couldn’t--” she swallows, hard, but presses on. “I couldn’t live with that disappointment. You would have been supportive, and it would have killed you. And I wasn’t ready. I’m still not.”

He shakes his head. “You should have told me.”

“Well, it’s a little late for that now.”

"I just don’t get it. I've known about every period and headache and weird rash you've had since we were kids.”

“No, you haven't. You don’t know everything about me.” 

“Fine. You know everything about _me_.”

“I’m not you, Scott!” Her voices catches, briefly hysterical. “Not everyone is an open book. I can’t just be like you. Some things are personal.”

“Not between us.”

“ _Especially_ between us. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me, growing up with you, knowing every little detail of every relationship? We could have used some boundaries back then.”

“Oh, drop the Psych 101. You know we’ve already worked through that. Just because I was an ass when I was seventeen doesn’t mean it was okay for you to lie about the fact that you were pregnant with my child.” 

“I think you should go.” She sounds ready to throw something else. He hears this, nods, and leaves.

As soon as he’s gone, she vomits into her sink. Slimy, undigested chunks of pizza she rinses down the garbage disposal. She rinses her mouth with water from the tap, looks down at her powder blue pajama pants -- slices of apple and and pumpkin and cherry smiling up at her -- and decides she’s going to burn them.

* * *

  ** _I’m tired, you’re lonely._**

**_Screaming, “babe, console me.”_ **

**_But I’ve already given all that I have._ **

Summer and fall come and go.

She spends the hotter months in Florence, then Tulum, then Denpasar, all documented and curated for Instagram. _Here I am, smiling in a gondola. Here I am, laughing while drinking from a coconut. Have you all forgotten about my unborn child?_

She combs through the comments every night before bed, deleting the ones that call her a whore or a slut or a baby killer. Those are fewer and farther between, now.

Only every other comment is about him. Asking where he is. "Have you talked to Scott? We miss Scott. Are we going to see you and Scott out on tour this year?"

("Was Scott the father? Is that why you stopped talking? When did he find out?"

Delete, delete, delete.)

In the fall, she meets the hockey player. He’s exactly her type, which is to say, he is _nothing_ like Scott. He keeps his sandy blond hair high and tight. He’s 6’3”, has a deep, booming voice and bulging muscles. He responds to her texts in a timely manner. He pretends to like museums, and he never makes fun of her cooking.

He laughs at all of her jokes, but never tells his own. When a song she loves comes on the radio, he doesn’t sing along. When he looks at her from across a crowded room, he doesn’t read her mind. When she says she’s fine, he believes her.

He is nothing like Scott, so she keeps him around.

(She still checks up on him. He deleted his social media accounts, but she catches up on Genevieve’s private page. She had to create a burner account just to follow her. It was worth it, because there he is, in the background of a selfie, shirtless and making breakfast. And there he is, on a group outing with her family, wearing matching button down shirts. Tessa gets a sick sense of satisfaction whenever his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, which is increasingly often.)

***

In November, she receives an email from the Mayor of London inviting her to the unveiling of their statue. She sends a screenshot of the email to Jordan and asks whether she read that right. _Can they seriously just put up a statue of you without asking first?_

Of course she wants to go. But, as with everything else related to the most important 20 years of her life, there’s no way to get around the Scott of it all. She supposes she could text him. “Hey, are you going to that statue thing? Are we still avoiding each other like genital herpes?” They didn’t exactly leave things on friendly terms, but months have passed, now. Whatever residual anger she was feeling has loosened its hold on her central nervous system. Which is to say, when she hears his name, she no longer tumbles headfirst into a panic attack.

He reaches out first.

 _T - assuming you got the invite. We should go._  

She reads his text 30 times over, parsing every character. Notes the capital letters and existence of punctuation marks. Notes the familiar greeting: _T_. There’s no question mark, but he leaves the ball in her court.

Fuck it.

_Okay._

***

The word of the day is: pivot. 

She had forgotten what it felt like to be at the center of a media blitz. It’s nothing like how it seems from the outside. Cameras and lights pointing from every direction, questions shooting off rapid-fire, always needing to pee, feeling constantly like there must be lipstick on her teeth.

It’s their first joint public appearance since before the incident. They have a brief, totally civil pep-talk in the morning as soon as they arrive. _We present a united front. Talk about our skating. When our relationship comes up, pivot to skating. When anything else comes up, pivot to skating. If they push, decline to comment. Make them look like jerks for asking._  

“You okay?” he asks. The first reporter is already headed their way.

She nods, not wanting to lie to him outright, not wanting to get into the truth.

He gives her hand a squeeze -- once, automatically -- then immediately pulls away. It sends a jolt through her body. She can practically taste her own heartbeat.

“Sorry,” he says.

The apology somehow makes it worse.

***

She knows he spent Christmas in Montreal last year. Gen posted a #tbt to Christmas dinner with her family a few weeks ago. She wonders if he’ll come home to Ilderton this year, now that the waters have settled between them. Not that they’re in danger of running into each other. But people talk when they’re within a 30 mile radius of each other. Like to poke and prod and suss out the status of their relationship. _Are you seeing Scott again?_

She wouldn’t know how to answer that question.

Scott is… frustratingly unreadable to her now. After the statue ceremony, they said goodbye with an unspoken, “See you next time,” but there was no indication of when, or whether they were “friends” again, or ever would be. Civility is wholly uncharted territory for the two of them. She only ever knew him to be wild and unguarded, even with acquaintances, with complete _strangers_. Scott was Scott in any context.

But he’s put up walls since the incident, and it makes her unbearably sad to think that she did that to him. It was exactly the fate she’d been hoping to avoid.

She arrives at her mom’s house early on the 24th with a trio of homemade pies (the crusts were store bought and the fillings came from cans, but she counts assembly as a real cooking skill). She helps her mom set up for dinner -- plating cheeses, mulling wine. Since her parents’ divorce, Christmas has become an intimate affair. Just her brothers with their wives, her sister with her fiancé, Tessa with her pies. They celebrate on Christmas Eve, now that the Virtue kids have their own kids to open presents with on Christmas morning. Tessa doesn’t mind. She’ll spend Christmas morning alone with her mom. They’ll drink coffee and eat leftover dessert and go out to the movies. There can be comfort in new traditions.

After dinner, as they’re all sitting around the fireplace, apologizing to their stomachs for the hell they’ve just put them through, Tessa sneaks onto the back patio and indulges herself an _old_ tradition. 

While they were in Canton, Tessa and Scott picked up a few bad habits, smoking being the worst of them -- it was an easy way to keep her weight down, and an easy distraction from their raging hormones. The phase thankfully only lasted a year or two, but every year at Christmas, she’s allowed herself a solitary cigarette. She’s not even sure she’ll like it anymore. Something about growing older has diminished the enjoyment she derives from anything remotely bad for her.

Two puffs in, her phone buzzes in her pocket.

_I’m at the rink._

Her heartbeat does a samba.

Three little dots appear and disappear. Reappear again. She holds her breath, then realizes she needs to exhale, lest she give herself lung cancer.

The little dots disappear again. She imagines him leaning against the boards, cursing himself for hitting send in the first place. It’s not an invitation, exactly, but it is if she wants it to be.

Her hands are shaking from the cold and from the nicotine. She’s slightly woozy from the wine. She types out her reply and hopes it’s the right one.

_I’ll be there soon._

***

She has to run home to grab her skates first, but it’s on her way to Ilderton. She assumes he grabbed his mother’s set of keys to the rink, or maybe he has his own by now.

The walk from the parking lot to the lobby takes a century. She has no idea what to expect tonight. Her blades haven’t touched ice in two months.

When she finally finds him, he’s alone on the ice. Only half the lights are on. She clears her throat, but he doesn’t hear her over the roar of the air conditioning. She decides to watch him covertly as she laces up her skates. He looks as good as he always has -- a natural. She used to hate him for that, and maybe still does. With her, there was always so much effort. It was agony, playing catch up for twenty years.

She steps out onto the ice without a word. Strokes around the boards, getting her sea legs. On her second lap, Scott falls into step beside her like it's nothing -- they always understood each other so much better on the ice than off it.

They don’t talk, is the thing. The thing that drives her mad for the days that follow. He takes her hand and they go through simple patterns. All told, maybe thirty words are exchanged the whole night, and only to coordinate their bodies. The muscle memory is all there -- it’s only the loss of stamina that either of them really feels.

She missed him so much, misses him even now, with his hands on her waist, on her thighs, holding her in a curve lift, guiding her through a step sequence. She already feels the loss of him approaching.

When they’re too tired to continue, they stand by the boards gasping for breath. She’s glad she only smoked that one cigarette. Sweat beads from his forehead, radiates from his chest. He steps off the ice first. She just stands there, watching him untie his skates. Hands on her hips, deep crease in her forehead. He doesn’t look back at her again. Throws his skates in his locker and disappears into the booth, waiting for her to leave so he can turn off the lights and go.

It’s one of the worst nights of her life.

***

They meet up again after that. Once a month, then every other week. They work through portions of old routines and only speak when absolutely necessary. He’s been splitting his time between coaching in Montreal and the skate shop in London, so he's around. It turns out, Scott has so much more to offer the skating world than she does. She never had any desire to coach or judge. Her love for the sport began and ended with Scott.

She’s glad she has that back again, even if it kills her to be so close to him and still so far away.

***

One day in April, he texts her that he’s in town. She heads to the rink right after close and waits for him in the parking lot. After 15 minutes of sitting in her car, she checks her phone and sees that she has two missed calls and a text from Scott.

_Got here early, in the booth._

Inside, she laces up her skates and gets out on the ice while Scott fiddles around in the booth. On her third lap around the rink, she hears Tchaikovsky playing faintly overhead. The volume increases, then stops, then starts again. When she realizes what’s happening, she turns to look at him, stepping out onto the ice with his head down, and doesn’t know whether to kiss him or kill him.

He looks up at her and shrugs. A small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Tessa twirls around on the ice, improvising balletic choreography, which he mimics gleefully, jumping around on the ice like a fool. They go back and forth like this, not really following their original choreo, until the Nutcracker comes to a triumphant end and the opening beats of “Gonna Make You Sweat” blast overhead. She laughs as Scott swaggers through his portion of the routine. They’ve both completely forgotten the moves, but she can’t stop smiling. Neither can he. By the time the music ends, they’re just chasing each other in circles like they used to when Marina was on the road with Meryl and Charlie and they had the rink to themselves. 

It’s intoxicating. It’s the first time she’s felt like this since Pyeongchang. 

Afterwards, he takes her hand, and they skate silent laps together, basking in the temporary glow of normalcy.

“We should re-learn the choreography,” she says, after a while.

"Or we could work on some new programs.”

She tries not to sound too surprised by this. “Yeah. Okay.”

“It’s Stars on Ice next month.”

“I know.”

“We could… I don’t know. Work something out. If you wanted.”

“Okay. I mean, I’ll have to think about it.”

There’s nothing to think about, really. She’s house poor, and despite all her grandstanding about going for an MBA or whatever, Tessa has no real desire to go back to school. Touring was always part of the plan. Was _the_ plan. 

“Only if you want to. I don’t want to… I just want things to not be so hard with us.”

“I know. Me too.”

Her hand is still in his.

“Scott?”

He responds with a sideways glance.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. Me too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don’t know me. You have no idea who I am. ‘Cause if you knew me, you would fucking hate me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, guys. I am blown away by the response to the first chapter. Thank you all for your beautiful comments. Hopefully we can still be friends when this is over.
> 
> (You can picture whoever you damn well please, but tonight, the part of David will be played by Matthew Goode.)

******_If I was a softer person,_ **

**_I could give you the kindness you are deserving._ **

She has to wave her hand beneath the sensor half a dozen times before it registers, dispensing one measly sheet of paper towel. “Stupid thing,” she mutters, attempting in vain to coax out another sheet. Hands dripping water onto the muddy tile floors.

“Tessa?”

She spins to find the source of the familiar accent. Marie-France squints at her, until confirmation dawns in her eyes and she pulls her former student in for an embrace. “ _Mon amie_ , so good to see you.” Tessa hugs her back, trying her best not to wipe her damp hands on Marie’s cashmere sweater.

“You, too.”

“What are you doing here? You should have let me know, I could have put you on our list.”

“Oh, I’m in town for work -- it was so last minute. I didn’t even realize Nats were happening until this morning, I’ve been so out of the loop.”

“Work is good?”

“Work is good,” Tessa confirms. A toilet flushes, and Billie-Rose steps out and into her mother’s orbit.

“Well hi there, Miss Billie,” Tessa says, crouching to level with her.

“Hi, Miss Tessa,” she says, shyly.

“ _Lave t’es mains_ ,” Marie-France instructs, and Billie-Rose washes her hands.

“She’s gotten so big,” Tessa says, standing up.

“They do that,” Marie-France muses, fussing with her daughter’s braids. “How long are you in town?”

“I leave tomorrow night, but today’s my only day off.”

“You should come to dinner.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose--”

“Nonsense, no such thing. _Famille, oui?_ ”

“ _Oui, famille._ ”

“Come and find me after,” she says.

Tessa nods as Marie-France departs the restroom, Billie-Rose in tow. It’s only then that she finishes drying her hands on her jeans, reaches into her pocket, and fingers the sparkling white-gold engagement ring that she removed mere minutes prior.

***

She elects not to put it back on.

It’s all so new. Ironically, she feels naked when she wears it, like the whole world can see her for exactly who she is. Which is at least somewhat true. She _is_ an engaged woman. It’s not that she’s hiding, she’s just... waiting for the right time to announce it.

She rationalizes this to herself with ease. She's at a skating competition, after all. She’s still the reigning Olympic champion -- for the next few weeks, anyway -- and there’s no way she’d make it through the day without someone noticing the giant rock on her finger and blasting her relationship status out to Canada and the world.

(It has nothing to do with the fact that Scott is here, or that she hasn’t seen him in 3 months, or that she specifically requested a trip to her company’s Vancouver office to coincide with Canadian Nationals, or that she’s been waking up in a cold sweat every night for two weeks just thinking about it.)

David would totally understand.

***

She grabs a seat in the stands, not so high up. She wears a baseball cap -- more than mildly protective of her anonymity -- but knows that her cover has been blown a mere ten minutes into the competition when she overhears the girls seated two rows behind her whispering. She senses them taking her picture. It'll probably end up on social media. She has to remind herself that this is okay -- that this is all part of the job, even three and a half years into retirement. She’s just watching a skating competition -- not murdering her fetus out on the ice for everyone to watch. All _twelve_ people who still give a shit will find something to criticize in anything she does, so she runs through the breathing exercise she learned in cognitive behavioral therapy and tunes them out.

She loves watching juniors compete. Some of her fondest memories from her entire career were of those early years of competition. Rising from 11th to 2nd to 1st. Every step was a giant leap. She wishes she could bottle up that feeling and carry it with her forever. She imagines that must be why Scott chose to coach juniors. To make his mark on the future of Canadian ice dance. To live those big moments vicariously.

She misses it.

When the first of the Gadbois teams steps out onto the ice, she scans the crowd of coaches and skaters below to find him with his hands on his hips, a furrow of concentration set in his brow, yelling encouragements under his breath as they skate. Watching Scott watch one of his teams skate is as close to a religious experience as she’s had in the last three years. She drinks him in like communion wine. Does the sign of the cross when he pumps a fist, and ten Hail Marys when he sings along.

Does a full rosary when he sits in the kiss & cry, anxiously biting the skin around his right thumbnail. She’s sure he’s chewn it raw. She used to have to hold his hands to keep him from indulging that habit, but he’s on his own, now.

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until the scores for their free dance are posted and Scott pulls his team into a group hug. 

***

“Collette, Matthew. Have you met Tessa?”

“No, not yet,” Tessa says, reaching for their hands to shake.

She found Marie-France backstage after the show, as promised, and now finds herself swept up in cheek kisses and “how have you beens?” and “have you mets?”

“I’m such a fan,” Collette says, shaking Tessa’s hand eagerly. Her cinnamon brown hair is swept back in an elegant french twist. Her slight frame bursting with energy after a silver medal win. Tessa is struck with feeling for this girl in a green dress and slip-on shoes.

“And I’m a fan of yours. I’ve heard so much about the legendary Baptiste and Duncan,” Tessa says.

“I’m gonna go change,” Matthew interjects. He gives his partner’s hand a squeeze before excusing himself.

“Ignore him,” Colette says, rolling her eyes. “He’s just bummed we didn’t get gold.”

“You’ve got so much time to get there. At our first Junior Nationals we came in 7th.”

“That’s what I told Matthew.” Tessa likes this girl, really. Sees herself in her, though finds she’s more self-possessed at 14 than Tessa was even at 20. “Marie-France says you’re coming to dinner?”

“I think so.” She locks eyes with Scott, who approaches down the hall. _Breathe in for 4, hold for 7, out for 8…_

“I’d love to pick your brain, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

“Hey, kiddo,” comes the familiar voice. He envelops Colette in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground. “You crushed it out there.” Colette laughs as he sets her down. _In_ , one two three four, _out_ , one two three four five six seven… “I see you met Tessa.”

Colette nods. “She’s amazing.”

“I’m alright,” Tessa says.

“And incredibly humble,” Scott chimes in.

“I’ll let you two catch up,” Colette says, and she heads off toward the dressing rooms.

“Pretty incredible team you’ve got there,” Tessa says, once she’s out of earshot.

“They are, aren’t they?” His whole being is buzzing with pride. “So, you decided to drop by?”

“Yeah, I… It was a spur of the moment thing. I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s good. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Colette seriously won’t shut up about you. She’s got a _mad_ case of hero worship.”

“Hopefully I don’t shatter the illusion,” she says, her own shoes suddenly very interesting.

“You won’t.” There’s a commotion in the distance, and Scott is distracted. “Hey, I’ve got to wrap some things up here, but I’ll see you later?”

“Mmhmm.” He gives her shoulder a quick squeeze and is gone. It’s the most they’ve said to each other in three months.

***

She has time to kill before dinner, so she spends it in her hotel room, scrolling through Instagram, taking an extra long bath, and removing every square inch of unwanted hair from her body. Applying and reapplying foundation (too cakey the first time). Debating between three different liquid lips before settling instead on a tinted gloss with a medicinal cherry scent. She doesn’t _want_ to overthink tonight. These are old friends who have seen her through her highest highs and lowest lows. She just wants them to see that she’s Good, now. That life is good. That work is good. That she still looks _good_.

Her basest self still wants Scott to want her. On some level, this is always going to be the case. She knows how he likes her: hair down, no makeup on, in something skintight and simple. She settles on a low-cut black dress, thigh-high boots, and a leather jacket. Casual enough that only someone who _really_ knows her would know what she’s trying to do. Jordan is on the other side of the planet, David is at a conference in Las Vegas, and Scott is far too oblivious to catch on, so she’s safe.

She’s really not trying to make anything happen. That would be messy, and instantly regrettable, and she’s engaged to somebody incredible. Scott is practically engaged, too. And they’re both such _different people_ now. But damn if he didn’t look good today with his team jacket and his game face on. Damn if she doesn’t want to see him fall at her feet, to beg for it, completely at her mercy. Damn if she doesn't want--

Her breath catches as her phone rings.

“David, hi.”

***

She met David at a fundraiser a year and a half ago. He was different from the men who had come before. For starters, he had never been -- nor had he any aspirations to be -- a professional athlete. After both of his siblings died from cystic fibrosis, he dedicated his life to the pursuit of a cure. He was funny, genuinely. He was _kind_. He had a birthmark on his ass that Tessa loved to mock him for. He loved Hall and Oates almost as much as she did. Had a bump on his nose from being punched in the face at 13. He was really good at eating her out. He played bass guitar and hated seafood and never once made Tessa feel guilty for having an abortion.

She loved him. When he proposed, it was an easy yes.

About six months into their relationship, she unfollowed Genevieve on Instagram. It was time, she decided, to let shit go. She and Scott were on better terms, now. They had toured on and off for two years, could be in the same room for an extended period without making the other cry. They still met up to skate every month or so, though their sessions now were fewer and farther between.

Slowly, then all at once, he stopped being her person.

(But sometimes, at three AM, when the lights are off and David is deep in sleep, and the house is so quiet she can hear her own heart beating, she holds her stomach and gives names to their phantom child. She slips a hand beneath the elastic of her underwear and imagines him there. Breathes his name in the dark and dares David to catch her in the act. _You don’t know me. You have no idea who I am. ‘Cause if you knew me, you would fucking hate me._ )

***

“Dubreuil,” she repeats. “Or maybe Lauzon.”

“......no,” the hostess says, scanning the list. “I don’t see it.”

“It’s a big party. Like, twenty people, probably.”

“The only large party I have is under Moir.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s it.”

“Right this way.” The hostess gives her a tight smile and escorts her to the back.

The major players are all here. Marie-France, Patch, and Romain of course. Carolane and Shane (who she must remember to congratulate on their bronze). She spots Colette and Matthew across the room, where Scott is deep in conversation with an older woman she suspects to be one of their mothers.

A friendly presence appears with a glass of white wine.

“Oh, _merci_ ,” she says, accepting the drink from Patch with a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Good to see you, Tessa. Marie-France says you have been doing well in Toronto.”

“I have.”

“It’s good to hear. You are missed at Gadbois. All of us.” It’s pointed, the _all_ part.

Tessa smiles as she sips down her wine. Patch tells her about their junior teams and about Gabi and Guillaume’s near-lock for gold in Beijing. How they broke their own record with their free dance. (How that record should still belong to Moulin Rougue, but no matter.) How Madi and Zach have a real shot at the podium this time, now that the Shibs have retired. How if Chock and Bates can beat Carreira and Ponomarenko’s monster SD score, Gadbois could sweep. She nods and smiles at the appropriate times, her eyes flitting occasionally to Scott’s back as he chats animatedly with Romain and a leggy brunette Tessa has yet to identify.

Patch tries to “casually” slip in that Scott and Gen broke up a few months ago. Tessa knows what he’s playing at -- knows that Patch always was and probably always will be the greatest advocate for their relationship. Having lived through a close approximation of their own experience, he has more legs to stand on than most, where their relationship is concerned. But no one else can really know what they’ve been through.

Patch excuses himself for the restroom just as Tessa gulps down the remainder of her drink. She heads to the bar for a refill, where a salt-and-pepper suit tries to chat her up. When he offers to buy her a drink and she can’t decide which polite excuse she’s going to make this time, Scott appears at her side.

“Chardonnay, right?” He says.

“Make it a vodka soda,” she says, flooding with relief. Her silvering fox vacates his stool in search of easier pastures.

“Mixing alcohols, I see.”

“I live dangerously.”

“That is the Virtue motto." The bartender delivers Tessa's drink. "Put it on my tab,” Scott says.

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“Please. Consider it payback.”

“For what?”

He shrugs. “Take your pick.”

Tessa raises her glass and knocks back a too-long gulp as he sips his beer. “So. Patch tells me you and Gen are,” she makes a slashing motion across her throat.

“Did he now?” Scott leans against the bar. He swirls his beer in its pint glass and shakes his head. “You know, he’s a great coach, but I think his real passion’s in gossip.”

Tessa smirks. Grateful this conversation hasn’t taken a heavy turn.

“I’m sorry,” she says. He just shrugs and turns the conversation toward his junior skaters. They’ve had a promising season. He can see them on the podium at the next Olympics, and Tessa agrees that they’ve got real potential, what with Matthew’s natural skating talent and Colette’s dancing ability. They order another round of drinks and rejoin the group, sticking close by throughout the evening.

It occurs to Tessa that this is the easiest things have been between them since before it all went to shit. There hasn’t been a single awkward pause or loaded silence. She finds him stealing glances at her throughout the night. She feels his eyes on her, warm and searching. Feels the familiar warmth in her belly settling in, a flush creeping across her neck. Or is that the alcohol?

The night goes on. People start to peel off and head back to their hotels. Marie-France makes Tessa promise to visit Montreal soon, and Colette incepts Tessa into following her back on social media. She finds Scott at the bar, settling his tab, and announces her plans to call it a night.

“I’ll walk you out.”

She waits while he calculates his tip, then he waits while she runs to the bathroom.

It’s much colder outside than it was when she arrived, and Tessa is far tipsier than she had planned. She runs her hands up and down her arms for warmth and rolls her eyes as Scott drapes his jacket over her shoulders.

“Want me to call you a cab?”

“I didn’t realize you were competing in the Gentleman Olympics.” He raises his brow at this. “I was just gonna walk. It’s only 15 minutes.”

“Then I’ll walk with you.”

“And he’s going for gold.”

The walk is quiet. She had forgotten how nice it could be to just _be_ around Scott. His hand at the small of her back when she stumbles on the uneven sidewalk. Making stray comments about passing scenery. The lingering scent on his jacket -- vetiver, amber, and sandalwood. It’s a new cologne, but it smells like home. When they arrive at her hotel, she removes the jacket begrudgingly to hand it back to him. He just laughs. He’s staying at the St. Regis, too. Because of course he is.

They ride the elevator up to her floor in electrified silence. When he follows her out, it's because this is his floor, too. She feels the destiny in their shared destination, like the universe is mocking them. She thinks about how easy it would be to invite him in for a nightcap. How easy it would be to bury herself in the crook of his neck. To laugh at his jokes and open him up. She can always plead drunk in the morning. Chalk the whole thing up to alcohol and nostalgia.

“Goodnight, Scott.”

She dips her key card into its slot and pushes the door open. He leans his head against the doorframe, biting his lip. Clearly thinking about it, too.

“Can I come in?”

One look, and she knows they're both fucked. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry, too. We’re stupid, right? So fucking stupid. You smell nice. You smell nice, too. God, I missed you._

_Can I kiss you?_

* * *

**_And where’s the obvious light?_ **

**_Where’s the obvious light?_ **

**_Where’s the obvious light?_ **

“Hey, do we have any spare bulbs?”

“Hall closet, behind the first aid kit.”

Tessa grabs the step ladder from the kitchen and carts it out to the hall. She finds the spare bulbs exactly where David said they would be. She folds up the ladder and brings it with her to the bathroom to replace the offending object above her mirror. Satisfied with her work, she steps down and finds that she’s winded.

She’s felt strange all week, frequently tiring after menial tasks. She couldn’t get herself out of bed for yoga on Tuesday and skipped her hip-hop and jazz classes just because. She’s chalked it up to seasonal change and PMS. Maybe she’s coming down with something. Or maybe she’s just getting old.

“I’m running out. Did you need anything from the store?” David appears at the bathroom door. He’s got week-old scruff and has forgone contacts for glasses today. Poor guy has been working around the clock on a grant proposal, but she loves him like this. Overworked and hyper focused.

“If you pick up some cocoa powder, I’ll make you the magic brownies.”

His face lights up, and he leans in for a kiss.

Ten minutes later, he pulls his pants back on and heads to the store.

It’s only then that she realizes she’s late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a really tough chapter for me to write. I knew this is how I wanted to end it, but wasn't sure if I could stick the landing. Hope you enjoyed, and as always, my Gryffindor ass survives on external validation. Your comments are greatly appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to yell at me, I'm on tumblr @softbroscottmoir.


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